Blood and Tears
by Leia
Summary: [Complete] Mirai Piccolo POV. 'Four days. It has been four days since those monsters, the jinzouningen, landed in the city and began destroying everything. No one knows where they came from. If they ever told, the person didn’t live to repeat it.'


Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. Let me just run and get my smelling salts, because I'm sure you were all shocked and surprised to hear that . . .

A/N: Here you have another Mirai timeline from me, hence fuelling the rumours that I have an obsession with death, angst, and violence. Hey, you tell me! This was actually my first story to take place in the Mirai timeline, written last May or so, and as such, I was reluctant to publish it without further research and subsequent editing. I have a penchant for accuracy, and at the time, I was unsure of the minutiae of this timeline. So, six months and many revisions later, here it is.

It's a Piccolo point-of-view, in case you missed that from the summary -- still one of my very favourites to do, of course. His insight into things is much more calculating than the others, riding less on emotions, thinking things through. It's odd. This angle has probably been done before, in fact, I'm willing to lay odds that it has, but when I wrote this, I didn't know that. So . . . enjoy. Death and angst for everyone. ;_;

Blood and Tears

_Mister Piccolo!!_

The voice tears through my consciousness like a sword through a curtain, bringing me out of my meditation.  My eyes snap open.  If anyone else had disturbed my thoughts they would have been sorry, but this boy is the sole exception.

_Gohan_?  I call, contacting his mind with mine; something I rarely do with anyone but him.  How long have we shared this mental link?  Three, maybe four years?  Well, no matter.

_It's Daddy . . . he's hurt, I don't know what -- _the boy's mental voice is as panicked and frightened as I've ever heard it.  --_ Mister Piccolo, I'm scared!_

This is all I need.  Gohan doesn't get scared anymore -- he's seen too much for little things to bother him.  _I'm coming, kid.  Just wait._

I take a second to find Gohan's ki, then fly off in that direction.  I can sense Kuririn there with him, as well as a small, faint energy, so low it can barely be felt . . . Son??  My eyes widen and I double my speed, hearing my cape snapping in the wind.

My destination is the field behind Gohan's house, where he and his father often spar.  I've been there so many times that I don't even have to concentrate on where I'm going.  Instead I use the few minutes I have to think about my strange friendship with this boy.

Gohan.  When I first met him, he was definitely a "mama's boy," prone to bursting into tears for no reason at all.  He got under my skin a lot at first, with all his blubbering -- I hated that sound.  Yet somewhere during the time he trained under me, something changed.  He became less annoying, and he latched onto me -- me, the demon king!  It took awhile, but gradually my grudging acceptance of his affection gave way to something more.  Now I care for that kid as if he were my own son.

Not that I'll ever admit it to him.  The boy is already dependent enough on me without him knowing how much I need him.

A smile crosses my face.  Who would have thought it -- Piccolo, the only offspring of Piccolo Daimao, king of darkness -- growing attached to a small, half-Saiyajin, half-human boy.    He's changed me -- I know that now.  No longer do I feel the need to destroy, to rule; all that has changed because of that spiky-haired kid.

The smile fades.  I can feel Gohan's emotions in the back of my mind, and he's terrified of something.  Whatever happened to his father must be pretty bad; I haven't felt Gohan this worried since . . . well, since we thought Son had been killed on Nameksei.

I can see them now, black specks in the distance.  I increase my speed to get there as fast as possible -- Gohan's anxiety must be catching, because I'm beginning to feel the Nameksejin equivalent to adrenaline coursing through my veins.  Whoever -- or whatever -- has hurt Son could very well come back for Gohan.

But when I land, I can see it's not like that.  Son is lying on the ground, arms and legs akimbo, but there's not a mark on him; no sign of a struggle.  Kuririn and Gohan are kneeling by his side, and they aren't injured, either.  Even as I let out a sigh of relief, my insides twist into a knot.  If it wasn't an attack, what was it?

Gohan hears the grass rustle as I touch down, and he runs toward me, gasping for breath.  Tears are spilling from his eyes as he buries his face in my leg.

"What happened?" I demand, striding over to where Son is lying.  He isn't dead, but it doesn't look good.

  


Kuririn glances up at me, eyes wide.  His face is tear-stained, and he looks at me like I'm going to eat him or something.  He always was a little intimidated by me.  Any other time I would find it amusing, but right now there are more important things to worry about.

"We were sparring," Kuririn explains shakily, "And all of a sudden Goku grabbed his chest, yelled something about his heart, and fell.  He hasn't woken up once since then."

I push the human aside and drop to my knees beside the fallen warrior.  His eyes are closed, face ashen; his features are contorted into a twisted grimace of pain.  His ki is so low it's almost nonexistent, and I place one hand over his heart.  I send a jolt of my own ki into him, hoping to jumpstart whatever it is inside him that's stopped.

For a moment nothing happens; then Son stirs violently, thrashing about.  His eyes flutter, then open -- they're glazed and unfocussed with pain.  I feel my chest tighten; Son hasn't been this unbalanced since Radditsu's attack, and that was a long time ago . . .

Son's face crumples as he tries to focus his eyes, to see who I am.  He relaxes when he recognizes me.  "O hey . . . Piccolo . . ." his lips curl, a faint ghost of his famous smile, the one he has passed down to Gohan.

Gohan rushes forward to wrap his father in a frightened embrace, but I'm worried he might hurt him.  The kid's power level always skyrockets whenever something happens to someone he cares about, and he has trouble controlling his power as is.  "Hey, kid, get off," I peel the boy off his father; instantly he wraps his arms around my waist, holding me tightly.  I don't try to disentangle myself; Gohan has an octopus' grip when he does this.

I sling one of Son's arms over my shoulder and support him around the waist; Kuririn rushes to help me.  I hold onto Gohan with my free arm.  "We're taking you to the hospital," I declare, preparing to fly.

Son shakes his head.  "No . . ." he gasps.  "No good . . . too late . . . no use," all of a sudden, he emits a scream of agony and collapses in my grip, clutching at his heart.

At that moment I know there is no doctor in the world that can help him.  Defeated, I lower Son back down to the ground and kneel beside him.  Kuririn puts Son's head in his lap, trying to ease his pain.  The human looks up at me, and I see in his eyes that he knows.

Gohan is pressed up against me, so close that I can feel his heart thudding against my chest.  I keep one arm circled protectively around him.

With obvious effort, Son opens his eyes.  "Go . . . han . . ." he calls, his voice hoarse.  Gohan crawls off my lap and sits next to his father, taking one of his hands.

"I'm here, Dad," Gohan sniffles as he tries to hold back the tears.  My heart goes out to the boy as I see him there, fighting to be brave and strong.  He is yet so young . . .

Son smiles, and it sends a chill down my spine.  There is something final about the expression, and it turns my nagging doubts into a confirmed suspicion.  Son knows what's going to happen, too.  "Gohan, I'm proud . . . of you . . . you have . . . incredible . . . power, my son . . ." he breaks off, coughing.

Gohan nods, though he is hiccupping with the effort of holding back the tears.  "Don't worry," he says childishly, "You'll be okay.  We'll get you to a doctor and then everything will be fine."

Son just shakes his head, very slightly, a small smile playing upon his features.  He looks up at me, raises a shaking hand to rest on my shoulder.  "Piccolo . . . take . . . care . . . of Gohan . . . train him . . . promise me . . ."

"I promise," the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.  Gohan's head snaps around to look at me, and the pain and sudden realization in his eyes cuts me to the very core of my being.

  


Son smiles again, and I can see the light beginning to fade from his eyes.  "Piccolo . . . Kuririn . . . my friends . . . I'll miss . . . you . . . Tell ChiChi . . . I'm sorry . . ." he draws a long breath, and I have to admire his strength.  He won't go until he's said what he has to say.  "Gohan . . . my son . . . train . . . hard . . . I love you . . ." his hand tightens briefly on my shoulder, then his eyes close -- one final time.

His hand falls.

"No!  Goku!" Kuririn grabs Son's limp hand holds it to his chest, tears streaming down his face.

"Daddy . . ." Gohan whispers, a quiet, broken sound.  He stares at his father's face in horror for a few seconds, then suddenly he loses control  and he buries his face in my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.  "_Daddy!  Come back_!" he screams, but his voice is muffled by my shirt.  I wrap my arms around the boy's shaking shoulders and hold him.

_Son_ . . . I think to myself, staring out at the sky.  _May you rest in peace . . . my friend_. 

******

A few nights later I'm back in my forest, attempting to meditate, floating half a metre above the ground.  It isn't working too well, though -- my thoughts keep slipping back to the funeral, which was held earlier this afternoon . . .

_We made the headstone for the grave, Gohan and I.  I blasted a rock from the cliff and shaped it, and Gohan carved his father's name on its surface.  We took the stone to the grave site together._

_I stood alone for most of the funeral. Gohan had insisted that I say a short speech for Son, and only the boy's tear-filled eyes could have persuaded me to lay my soul out in the open like that.  Once my speech was over, I moved off to one side of the gathering -- I didn't want anyone to see how moved I really was.  Gohan knew -- he's the only one who matters._

_ChiChi, Son's wife, was hysterical, sobbing in her father's arms.  She lay a rose and a photograph of her wedding inside the casket, and managed to choke out, "I'll always love you, Goku," before breaking down.  I never really liked the woman before, but I felt sorry for her after that.  She really does care for Son, with more force than any human heart should be capable of feeling.  _

_Bulma wasn't much better off; after setting a small rock carved to look like a Dragonball in Son's hands, she turned to Vegeta and wept in his arms.  Even the haughty Saiyajin was affected -- instead of pushing Bulma away, he just put an arm around her shoulders and let her cry.  _

_Kuririn sat by the grave, silent tears running down his cheeks; Gohan knelt beside his friend, one hand on his shoulder.  Gohan didn't cry through the whole funeral -- he comforted his mother and Bulma, consoled Kuririn, Yamucha, and the others . . . all with an expression of grim determination on his young face.  Everyone complimented him on what a brave boy he was._

_I was -- am -- the only one who could see through the tough mask._

I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present.  Gohan has lost the most important person in his life, and I can't do anything to help him.  It angers me to be so powerless, but this is Gohan's battle, not mine.  I can't shoulder the load for him this time.

I think Vegeta was the most appalled of all of us when we learned the cause of Son's death; a radical virus that attacked his heart.  When he heard this, Vegeta almost had a heart attack himself, yelling that it wasn't right for a Saiyajin to die while not in battle.

_"Kakarotto was not allowed to die!" Vegeta shouted.  "He knows perfectly well I'm the only one permitted to kill him!"_

_  
_

_"Shut up, Vegeta," Kuririn overcame his fear of the arrogant Saiyajin to snap at him.  "Just shut up.  Nobody _cares_ about your _stupid pride_.  Goku's _dead_, you hear me?"_

_Vegeta stared at him for a long second, then his face twitched and he blasted off._

_I watched this from behind a tree --  as Vegeta flew away, a thought struck me; he does care.  Despite all his protests and threats, Vegeta is sorry for Son's death.  Interesting._

I sense Gohan's ki long before I would be able to see him with my eyes, but I don't acknowledge him right away.  I wait until he is below me before I speak.  I don't open my eyes.

"Does your mother know you're here?"

"No," Gohan's voice is shaky.  "I don't think she'd care, though.  She hasn't done anything but cry since Dad . . . since Daddy . . ."

I grunt.  "You can stay, then."

"Thanks, Mister Piccolo," Gohan sighs, and I hear the leaves rustling as he lies down beneath me.  "I don't wanna go back home for a while.  I hate it when Mom cries.  I can't go anywhere in the house without hearing her."

I know if I let him keep talking he's going to cry, and I don't like it when he does.  It's like a piece of me has been torn away, every time the tears leak from the boy's black eyes.  So, "Go to sleep," I tell him, and he falls silent.  He knows why I said this.

A few minutes later, I hear a noise below me.  The poor boy is trying to cry quietly so he doesn't disturb me.   I open one eye.  "Gohan, are you crying?"

The noise stops.  "N-no," Gohan whimpers, but I know he's lying.  I can hear him sniffling; besides, I always know when the kid is crying, even if he is miles away.

I lower myself to the ground and sit, cross-legged, next to Gohan.  He's tried to be strong for three days straight -- it is only fair to let him cry now; to tell him I won't call him weak.  "Hey kid, come here," I hold out a hand, letting my tone soften.

With a sob that is half sorrow, half relief, Gohan launches himself into my arms, shaking like a leaf in a high wind.  "I want Daddy," he cries, and the pain in his voice makes me wish there is something I can do.  "I miss him so much . . . it's like there's a hole in me, somewhere above my stomach, and it hurts.  It _hurts_, Piccolo!  I want Daddy to come back!" his chest heaves.  "I have to be strong for Mom, but it's hard . . . it's so hard . . ."

"Shhh.  I'm not asking you to be strong this time," I pat the boy's head and ruffle his black hair comfortingly, wondering what I can say that won't sound petty or cliché.  "I'm sorry, Gohan," I manage at last, hoping that Gohan will sense what is in my heart.  "I'm really sorry.  Your father was a good man -- a great man.  I know you're going to miss him, and so will I."

Gohan draws in a long, shuddering breath, and he looks up at me.  "Who's gonna' be my father now?" the dark lashes that frame his eyes are wet with tears.  "Mister Piccolo, will you be my father?"

I hold back a sigh -- I should have known this would happen.  The boy has always needed someone to look up to, someone who can take care of him; a mentor, a friend, a parent . . . anything.  He's always been dependant on others.  If not Son, then the boy clung to me.  It isn't the warrior's way -- he needs to learn to be strong.  Someday I will not be here, and he has to be able to live for himself.

I look down at him.  His face is so trusting that it pains me.  He needs to learn independence . . . but not now.  Not yet.

  


I put my arm around him, rest my chin on the top of his head.  "I can't replace your father.  I'm just your teacher --"

"No!" Gohan interjects.  "No, Mister Piccolo!  You're my best friend!"

_And you're mine,_ I smile.  "I may not be your father, Gohan, but I promised him I would take care of you, so that's what I'm gonna' do.  I'll try my best, anyway."

Gohan nods, and he wraps his arms around my waist.  "Can I stay with you tonight?" he asks timidly.

A small smile creeps over my face -- our private smile; the one I share with Gohan, and no other.  I levitate a few feet into the air, Gohan still on my lap.  "Yeah.  Sure, kid, you can stay.  Just don't sniff all night or I'm going to have to hurt you."

Gohan smiles back and closes his eyes, resting his head against my chest.  I stroke the boy's hair gently until Gohan falls asleep, his expression peaceful for the first time since his father's death.

I push a shock of hair out of the boy's face.  I am being too soft, I know -- I should be harsh with him, so the boy doesn't become weak . . . but as I see the tears drying on his cheeks, I realize there is plenty of time for training.  Now he needs a friend, not a teacher.

"I will always be here for you," I vow, watching the boy's chest rise and fall as he is locked in slumber.  Most people are terrified of me, yet this child sleeps peacefully in my lap, confident his "Mister Piccolo" will make everything okay.  As for me, I promise myself that I will.  "No one will ever hurt you again."

ONE YEAR LATER

Another explosion rocks the building where we are hiding.  Out of an entire city, we are the last -- myself, Vegeta, Kuririn, Bulma, her child, ChiChi, her father . . . and Gohan.  Thank Kami Gohan is still alive, not that that old fool had anything to do with it.  I don't know what I'd do without him.

Four days.  It has been four days since those monsters, the _jinzouningen_, landed in the city and began destroying everything.   No one knows where they came from -- and if they ever told, the person didn't live to repeat it.

There are two of them; one dark-haired, one blonde.  Both resemble teenage humans, but there is a cold malice I have never seen in the eyes of any biological being.  After pillaging South City, these two cyborgs went on a rampage, killing everything in their paths.  The male one has stolen a car and drives through the streets, mowing down people like bowling pins.  His sister doesn't resort to such childish practices, but her own methods are just as effective.

Tenshinhan, Chaozu, and Yamucha were the first of us to fall -- they died bravely, of course, but they were no match for the _jinzouningen_.  We buried Tenshinhan and Chaozu, side by side.  As for Yamucha, well . . . by the time we found him there wasn't much point to burial.  Gohan hid behind me when we found the pitiful remains of the warrior's body, but he didn't cry.

Now, the eight of us run from the androids, hiding in the wreckage of buildings, in forests . . . wherever.  It shames me that we aren't fighting, but I realize we have to come up with a plan.  Until we do, we must remain hidden.

Vegeta is disgusted by what he calls our cowardice -- I can see it in his face that he wants to fight more than anything else.  Despite my dislike of the man, I am forced to admire him.  His fighting spirit and determination are incredible, unsurpassed by anyone I've met, except for maybe Son.  Not that it helped _him_ any.

Another explosion sounds, closer this time.  The whole building rattles; chunks of plaster and cement rain down on us, but nobody notices.  The only movement is my own, as I drape my cape over Gohan's sleeping form to protect him from the dust.

  


The noise unsettles Bulma and Vegeta's child, and he wakes up.  Large blue eyes blink a few times in confusion, then he opens his mouth and begins to wail.  I wince -- with that noise echoing through the city, the _jinzouningen_ will have no trouble finding us.

Obviously Vegeta thinks so, too, for he turns to glare at the woman he has chosen to be his mate.  "Woman!  Shut that brat up if you don't want those things to find you."

Bulma looks haggard as she rocks her son, attempting to calm him.  I feel a sudden stab of pity toward the woman -- it's hard enough raising a child in this hell, I'm sure, without Vegeta ranting the whole way.

Bulma looks at him, and there is fire in her blue eyes.  She thrusts the baby at Vegeta.  "Here," she snaps at him.  "_You_ take him.  He's your 'brat', too."

Vegeta's eyes are wide as he regards the squalling infant in his arms -- then suddenly, the kid shuts his mouth and quits crying, staring up at his father with a serious expression.  I watch Vegeta's face carefully, and sure enough, it's there; pride mirrored in his normally cold face.  He might not like to admit it, but I can see that he does care for his son.  

"Shut up, brat," Vegeta tells him, but I can hear the underlying affection in his voice.  He hands the baby back to Bulma.  "There you go, woman.  Keep him quiet."

Bulma smiles.

Suddenly there comes a voice from outside.  "Come out, come out, wherever you are," it calls in a singsong voice.  It's the male android, #17.

Vegeta snorts angrily, and he clenches his hands into fists.  "I can't stand it!" he growls. "Those blasted windup dolls are mocking me!  I am the Prince of Saiyajins; I'm not going to wait around here for them to come and get me!"

"Vegeta, no!" Bulma cries.  She struggles to her feet, still holding the baby.  "You'll be killed!"

"They are no match for me," Vegeta retorts, but I can see something in his eyes.  He knows.  He's aware that we can't beat the metal monsters.  Again I feel flash of respect toward him -- he's determined to go down fighting, not hiding like a timid mouse.  

I catch his eyes and give a slight nod, conveying in that small gesture all my admiration. A small smirk crosses his face, then he nods back at me, acknowledging and returning my approval.  In that simple exchange is more meaning than words can express.

"I'm coming, then," Kuririn rises also, cradling his right arm.  The female _jinzouningen_, #18, broke it during our last altercation.

Vegeta looks him over scornfully.  "You wouldn't be able to do much harm, human," he scoffs.

Kuririn holds his gaze steadily, and there is a determination in his eyes I haven't ever seen in him before.  His jaw is set stubbornly.  "This affects all of us," Kuririn reminds Vegeta.  "We fight together . . ."

He doesn't say it, but we all know the rest of the sentence.

The Prince of Saiyajins, the Demon King, and the Earth's strongest human.  We have had our differences in the past -- we have all been enemies -- but now those petty squabbles do not matter.  We've bonded, in the way only imminent death can do.

We go into this battle as partners, allies . . . as friends . . . and we will die as such.

  


I glance down at Gohan, sleeping at my feet.  An incredible sadness creeps over me as I realize I will never see the boy again, and I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth.  I take off my cape and cover him with it; I put my turban beneath his head for a pillow.  It is a pity I have nothing to leave him by which to remember me, but I can't help that.  I tousle his hair, one last time.

"Goodbye, Gohan," I tell him quietly, and I get to my feet.

He stirs in his sleep, and I freeze -- but no, he merely frowns, and when I gently touch his forehead, his expression returns to neutral.  I breathe a sigh of relief and walk over to the last two fighters, besides myself, on this entire planet.  "I'm ready," I declare.

Vegeta reaches out and strokes his son's cheek with one finger, an uncharacteristic expression of compassion on his face.  "Be strong . . . my son," he murmurs, and I pretend not to hear.  It's not my business to intrude upon his personal matters.

The three of us are almost to the door when Vegeta suddenly stops and turns back.  I watch out the corner of my eyes as Vegeta walks back to Bulma and kisses her goodbye, long and hard.  I can't explain, but I feel a sense of satisfaction when I see this. I don't understand love in that sense, but I do know that it wouldn't be right for the Saiyajin to leave "his" woman without saying goodbye.

Vegeta comes back to us, and his eyes are smouldering, daring me to say anything about his momentary show of emotion.  I say nothing -- a few years ago I would have considered it my duty to make a smart remark, but not now.  We've moved beyond that.

Kuririn takes a deep breath, and I can tell he is struggling to hold himself together.  "Well," he looks from me to Vegeta.  "I guess this is it, guys.  It's been a pleasure fighting with you."

"Yeah," I manage a smile, but there's no comfort or amusement in it.  "You, too."

It is time.  The three of us walk out the door, and we don't look back.

Broken glass and cement crunch beneath my boots as I walk into the street.  My foot hits something soft, and I glance down to see the torso and arms of what had once been Kamesen'nin, who died early yesterday morning.  I see him, but I have no reaction -- my brain stopped putting faces and memories to corpses long ago.

I hear mocking laughter from above, and without looking I know who it is.

"Well, well," #17 smirks.  He and his sister float down to the ground.  "Back for the final round, I see."

#18 seems bored.  I've noticed she enjoys fighting more than taunting her victims. "Are you going to fight, or not?" she demands, crossing her arms.

#17 makes a face.  "O, fine.  You spoil all my fun," he plants his feet in the ground and clenches his fists in the ready stance.  "Who wants to die first?"

Vegeta steps forward, growling in the back of his throat.  He powers up, surrounded by a golden flame, hair spiking blonde, eyes a brilliant green.  He reached the mystic level of Super Saiyajin after Son's death, so to blazes with anyone who says Vegeta didn't care.  Not that it matters what anyone else thinks -- we know, and that's all that matters, to him, or to any of us.  "I'm ready," he stamps his foot into the ground defiantly.

"Mama!" he's stepped on a child's toy.  Where the owner of the doll is, I don't know, and I have no interest in finding out.

Vegeta flies at #17, and the attack begins. They punch and kick each other furiously, but after only a few blows it's obvious who the loser will be.  I fly to help him, but he pushes me away.

  


"Get away, Nameksejin," Vegeta's teeth are clenched.  His eyes bore into mine, and I get the message as clearly as if he spoke it aloud.  _Leave me alone,_ his gaze says. _ I know I'm going to die -- let me do it my way._

I grip his shoulder briefly, then I back off.  I know there is nothing I can do, and trying to help would only injure his pride.  I wouldn't do that -- it's the only thing he has left.  I know all too well how that feels.

I stand back and watch the fight -- Vegeta is getting pounded by #17 -- for a moment I wonder why he isn't countering the blows; then I register Vegeta's ki level.  It's rising steadily, and he can only be planning one thing with a power increase like that.  I grin as his intentions are suddenly made clear to me.  It's not that Vegeta isn't fighting back -- he's preparing.

The Prince of Saiyajins will go out with a bang, indeed.

I hear a gasp, and my head snaps around to see Kuririn and #18 locked in combat.  As I stand, helpless, #18 wraps her arm around Kuririn's throat.  His eyes bulge as she begins to cut off his air supply.

"Pity," #18 purrs in his ear.  "You're almost too cute to kill," she smiles ferally -- then, with a sharp, jerking motion she breaks his neck, making a sickening crunch. #18 drops Kuririn, and his lifeless body falls to the ground like a rag doll.  She prods him with her boot.  "Almost," she adds.

The android turns to me, and her ice-blue eyes glitter with sadistic amusement.  "I guess it's you and I, now," she remarks.

I nod.  "Guess so," I snarl, baring my fangs.  I may not be able to win, but I'm going to give her one heck of a fight.  "Let's get started."

Just then I hear a low gurgle, and I look over to see Vegeta, his throat held in #17's vicelike grip.  "It looks like time has run out for you," the _jinzouningen_ smiles coldly.  "Any last requests?"

Vegeta smirks through the grisly mask of blood that covers his face.  "You think you've won," he croaks, "But you haven't.  If I go, you're coming with me," one hand suddenly flies up from his side, to land on #17's chest.  "See you in hell, _jinzouningen_.  FINAL FLASH!!"

A bright light fills my vision, and I'm forced to cover my eyes to avoid being blinded.  When I manage to open my eyes a crack, Vegeta lies on the ground, lifeless.  His body is charred, but I can still make out the satisfied smile on his face.

Unfortunately, #17 is still functional.  However his clothes are tattered and his face is scarred by numerous lacerations . . . and the expression on his face is one of pure rage.  "The little . . ." he fumes, "He killed himself!  All right, so he thought he'd take me out with him, but . . . how dare he?!"

A smirk crosses my face, and I have to laugh.  "Stubborn to the end, eh, Vegeta?" the expression fades, to be replaced by a scowl.  I turn back to #18, who is looking vaguely entertained by her brother's ire.  "I believe we were just about to fight," I challenge.

#17 waves a hand.  "Go ahead, #18.  Have your fun.  That stupid idiot ruined mine," he plunks down on what is left of the curb and crosses his arms.  He reminds me of a child that has just been scolded, but I remind myself there is nothing cute or innocent about him.

#18 waits patiently, letting me make the first move.  I smile inwardly and raise two fingers to my forehead.  If she wants a show, I'll give it to her.  I wait until I can feel the power building up in my fingers before I thrust my arm forward.

"MAKANKOSAPPOU!!!!"

The spiraling corkscrew of light shoots toward her, but at the last second she bats it away, looking disappointed.  "I expected more from you," she sighs, then punches me in the chest.

  


The air rushes out of me and I fly backwards, slamming hard into one of the buildings.  Concrete bricks fall on me as I hit the ground, and it takes great effort to get up.  Blast, she's strong.

She doesn't waste time taunting me, like her brother would, nor does she toy with me.  Punch, punch, kick . . . everything she does is coolly efficient, with one purpose in mind.

My thoughts are shattered as her boot connects solidly with my arm, and I feel the bones give way beneath the crushing weight.  I grunt with pain, and in spite of myself I sink to my knees.

"The last fighter," her voice is mocking, but it sounds far away, like it has to get through a tunnel to reach my ears.  She kicks me, and I fall -- she plants her boot on my chest and begins grinding her heel into my breastbone.  "The last fighter, and you can't even put up a decent fight.  Pathetic.  You're just as bad as those weak humans, did you know that?"

I try to laugh, but I can only cough.  Purple blood oozes out of my mouth, identical to the liquid spurting from my wounds and mixing with the dust and dirt in a gritty pool on the street.  "You're afraid of us," I gasp.

She digs her boot deeper into my chest, and I wince.  "What?" she demands.

"You're afraid," I cough again.  Something is stuck in my throat, and I spit it out -- it's one of my fangs.  I'm going fast; I can feel it.  "You don't . . . understand . . . us . . . so that's why . . . you . . . kill."

"That's ridiculous," her eyes flash, and her hands drop to her sides. "You're just trying to come up with some stupid excuse as to why you, and everyone else on this planet, don't stand a chance against us."

I do manage a laugh this time.  She's trying to weaken my resolve -- trying to make me doubt my only reserve of strength before I die.  Well, it's not going to work.  "You fool . . . there's still . . . one . . . left . . ." a small smile crosses my face.  "You won't . . . beat . . . him."

"Liar!  No one is strong enough to defeat us!"  the _jinzouningen_ is angry now.  She lifts a hand, palm up. 

I know what's coming next, and I close my eyes.  Summoning my mental strength, I stretch out my mind to his, for one final call.

_Gohan . . . Goodbye . . . my friend . . . my . . . son . . ._. . ... ..... ...............

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know he hears me.  The thought fills me with so much happiness and relief that I don't feel the blast that tears through my chest, ending my consciousness.

There are no Dragonballs this time.

Game over.

"_Mister Piccolo!_"

It's a child's voice, and both the twins spin around to look.  The speaker is a small boy, with scruffy black hair and a suit of clothes identical to the one the Nameksejin is wearing.  He's holding some white material in his arms.

"You killed him!" the child cries.  Tears streak his cheeks, but his eyes burn with an intense fury.  "You _killed_ him!"

#17 glances at his sister, raises his eyebrows, and lifts up a hand, preparing to fire -- but #18 stops him.  "Wait.  He'd be too easy to defeat now. Let him grow up a little and get stronger.  We can easily wait a few years, and it would be worth it if he were to give us a challenge someday."

#17 shrugs.  "Whatever.  Makes no difference to me.  See you around, kid," he calls jovially, then the two _jinzouningen_ fly into the air.

As soon as they are gone, Gohan drops to his knees beside his friend's body. He doesn't have to feel for a pulse or search for ki; he already knows.

He had heard Piccolo's mental call, and he ran outside just in time to see #18 blast the remaining life away.  Tears flow down his face, landing on the ground and mingling with the purple blood already spilled there.

A great rage builds up in his chest, and something within him snaps.  Raising his fists to the sky, Gohan closes his eyes and screams, a sound filled with pain and anguish.

For the first time in the boy's short life, his eyes flash emerald, and his hair turns to gold.

After a few seconds, Gohan slumps to the ground, exhausted, panting heavily from the strain.  His anger gone, a whimper escapes the boy's throat.  He takes Piccolo's cape and lays it over the Nameksejin, then crawls beneath the cape himself, curling next to his friend's body.

His small frame wracked with sobs, Gohan reaches over and closes Piccolo's eyes.  "You called me your son," he hiccups, "But you're my best friend, Mister Piccolo."

The wind whistles through the streets, blowing dust over two dead bodies . . . but whether by accident or design, no dirt mars the forms of the lifeless Nameksejin and the weeping boy curled up at his side.

******


End file.
